The Year I Learned to Bake Bread

It started as a way to fill quiet Sunday afternoons. I found a simple bread recipe online and figured, how hard could it be?

My first loaf was a brick. My second loaf was a flat, sad pancake. My third loaf was edible, if you had strong teeth.

But I kept going. I learned that bread can't be rushed. You mix, you wait. You knead, you wait. You shape, you wait. For somebody who always wants everything done yesterday, bread was a quiet teacher.

By the tenth loaf, I had it. A crackly crust, a soft middle, that smell filling the whole apartment. I brought it to my neighbor, who is ninety-one, and she said it tasted just like her mother's.

Now I bake every Sunday and give most of it away. Bread is one of the oldest ways people have shown love: warm, simple and made to be shared.